


An Understanding

by thewolvescalledmehome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, If neither of us find someone type deal, Kinda, Marriage of Convenience, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28657896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: At the start of Sansa Stark's third London Season, she decides it will be her last. She will secure a husband by the end of the final ball.Jon Snow is new to the London Season and high society. He never expected to inherit money or property from an unknown uncle.When they meet at a ball, Sansa gets an idea.From the fic title game on tumblr (title proposed by winterrose527)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 194





	An Understanding

As a girl, Sansa remembered hearing two things whenever she met new people. The first was always about how her father would be flooded with proposals for her as soon as she was presented her first season. The second was how lucky her mother was to have her as her first daughter—Catelyn would never have to worry about finding her a suitable husband.

When Sansa officially was presented at seventeen, her first season started exactly as she had been told it would. Her dance card was always full. Her days filled with gentleman callers. The sitting room always overflowing with flowers and other gifts.

She had a suitor, a beau, a good match who was set to propose. Sansa and Catelyn had even begun ordering items for her trousseau from the seamstress.

Then her father was accused of being entangled with a political scandal. Ned and his solicitors were able to prove them all false before the season officially closed, but the damage had been done.

At the final ball of the season, Sansa had no suitors, no beaus, and a completely empty dance card.

The following year, Catelyn assured her that the scandal would not prevent her from finding a husband. Enough time had passed and other people had been the talk of the town since then.

Only none of them seemed to consider that most of the young women—the prettiest with the best family names—were already engaged or married. One was even with child.

The men instead paid all attention to the newly debuted girls. Sansa and the few others who were presented the year prior were only ever approached by the more undesirable men. The second, third sons. The men looking for their second wives or who were known to have bastard children secreted away in some sordid part of the city. The men whose proposals or affections had been rejected by their first choices already.

Sansa did get a proposal during her second season. One that was quickly and heartily rejected, first by Sansa, and then her father.

Between her second and third seasons, Sansa turned twenty. While she wasn’t old, she felt, after hearing repeatedly how fast a face and name like hers should be able to land a husband, that she was quickly approaching the possibility of being a spinster.

She vowed this season would be her last. She would secure a proposal by the end of the final ball.

* * *

Jon Snow, by all rights, did not belong with the society or the balls and functions that came with them.

He spent his life nameless, with no title, no hope at inheritance. It was why he initially joined the shire’s militia. While it didn’t give him rank or property, it did give him an income and respectability. It was the best he knew how to hope for.

He was five-and-twenty when the letter came. A distant uncle, a man Jon had never met, his family had never spoke of, had died heirless. Jon was, by the accounts of the solicitor who managed the property, his closest living male relative.

Jon was quickly lurched from the world he had known into the world of white gloves, balls, and seasons in which families presented their eligible daughters for marriage.

When Jon was first introduced to the world, he rather thought of it as something akin to the butcher’s shop, where the earlier you came and the more you paid, the better cut of meat you would receive. After spending his time with the militia, he found the same could be said for brothels. And, it appeared, securing a wife could be treated similarly.

Jon had attended a few balls during his time with the shire militia, but they had not prepared him for the London season.

In the shires, he was surrounded by fellow militia men. While there may have been a few titled amongst the guests, it was mostly soldiers in red coats and country girls.

His first London ball was vastly different. There were manners, formalities, and protocols. Young ladies in white dresses with gloves and dance cards circling their thin wrists. In the country, some girls were bold enough to ask him for a dance, once the first few had been completed. This was absolutely not true in London.

These ladies, Jon quickly realized, would never deign to approach a man first.

In his newly fitted but slightly out of fashion set of tails, Jon stood much out of the way of the young women and the suitors, both young and old, who seemed to clamor for attention and affection.

Several men approached, asking who he was, which girls he had his eye on. He explained that he had recently come into an inheritance—he was now the proprietor of a small country house out in the shires, and an even smaller townhouse here in London. The second question he was hesitant to answer—a woman had caught his eye, but she, like him, seemed to keep to the outskirts of the crowds. In the time Jon had been at the ball, he had not seen her on the dance floor for a single song.

He supposed she was already married—maybe her husband was overseas or away on business. There was no other reason why a beautiful young woman would be ignored in such a way.

The next man who approached him, this one younger, full of the nervous energy Jon remembered having when he was seventeen, eighteen, he decided to ask.

“What do you know of the woman in blue? With the red hair?”

“Miss Stark? This is her third season. My sister debuted with her.”

“She’s not married, then?”

“Married? No. I remember my sister talking about a scandal with her family, but I don’t remember what it pertained to.”

Jon reasoned a family scandal would definitely prevent a woman as pretty as herself from getting a husband. He didn’t know how these social circles worked, but he thought whatever the scandal was must not have been bad enough to bar her from these social gatherings.

“I believe her dance card has often been left empty, but she still attends.”

“Thank you.”

A simple waltz started next, and Jon found himself wading through the crowd of people talking and gossiping about the couples on the dance floor until he was directly in front of Miss Stark.

“Is this dance taken?” he asked, bowing slightly the way he had observed other men do.

“It is not, Mr.…?”

“Snow. Jon Snow.”

“Miss Sansa Stark,” she replied, gently laying her gloved hand in his.

She allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor and immediately join in with the steps. Jon knew he was a half beat behind—Miss Stark was the one actually leading—but she didn’t comment.

“Mr. Snow, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in attendance at the other London events or previous seasons.”

“I recently came into an inheritance. Prior, I was an officer in a shire militia.”

“The shires are a far cry from London. How are you enjoying it?”

“It is certainly different.”

They spun just as her brow raised, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. As if she had found his comment amusing.

She asked a few more questions about his opinion on the London season before the end of the dance.

Jon wanted to ask for the following dance as well, but from the corner of his eye he saw all of the other couples go their separate ways, and simply bowed instead.

“Thank you for the waltz, Mr. Snow. It might just be the only dancing my slippers see tonight.”

She curtsied and walked away before he could reply. What he wanted to say was _I would love to fill your dance card, Miss Stark, if you’d allow me._

* * *

Sansa quickly slipped away from the dance floor, a plan forming slowly.

She found Jeyne Poole with the other women who were married, engaged, or otherwise attached. Jeyne had been at Sansa’s side during their first season, but had become engaged to Mr. Waymar Royce at the end of the last season.

“Jeyne, will you join me in a stroll of the gardens? I’ve heard a new fountain has been added at the end of the path.”

She looped her arm through her friend’s and steered her away as Jeyne made her apologies to the woman with whom she had been talking.

“Tell me, what talk have you heard of a Mr. Jon Snow?”

“Was that the gentleman you were just dancing with?”

“The very one.”

“Well, he was very handsome.”

 _And brave enough to ask me to dance,_ Sansa thought.

She found that to be a rather more intriguing quality than the look of his face.

“He’s new to London and new to the season. He recently came into money and property when an uncle passed away. I’ve heard talk that he visited the town’s seamstress to get several jackets and tails altered or mended. I believe they were all previously worn by his uncle, especially given the style. He owns the townhouse at the end of Jonnel Lane.”

Jonnel Lane housed some of the smaller townhouses, but they were newer, respectable still, Sansa knew. Some other girls from her debut year had married into those properties.

“What do you know of his character? What type of man he is?”

“I’ve heard nothing damning. No bastard children, no bruised barmaids. He has just arrived though. I don’t believe anyone would have had near enough time to dig through his history.”

 _No,_ Sansa supposed, but she knew better than most how quickly scandals could ruin a person’s season, whether truthful or not. She suspected anything he would want to keep hidden would no doubt be exposed by the end of the season.

Sansa was also curious as to his age. She thought he looked a few years older than herself, though with men it was often harder to tell. Especially since they had the freedom to act as a bachelor well into their thirties. They were not expected to be married and with child within the first few years of being eligible. 

“He would most likely be an acceptable match for you, but I am convinced with just a little more patience you could make an even better one. One with a title, perhaps?”

“Jeyne, I love you dearly, but I fear my time for that sort of match has long passed. Now, my best hope is for a match that isn’t embarrassing or simply down right horrid. If I can’t marry for love, I would readily settle for respect or friendship.”

“You are not so old that you have to hurry into a marriage.”

“Am I not? At what point does it become mortifying that I am standing alongside girls nearly four years my junior? When they become five years my junior? Seven? I cannot continue to search for husbands as the pool of eligible men shrink to either the ancient, the immature, or the rakish. Mr. Snow is clearly neither of the first two, and if he proves not to be the third, why should he not be acceptable?”

“It will do nothing to improve your station. His income cannot be more than a few thousand a year.”

“My station is no longer my primary concern—it’s spinsterhood.”

* * *

Jon was standing near the garden doors when Miss Stark approached him.

“Miss Stark, did your slippers find any more acceptable dance partners?” he asked, bowing as he had before.

“Unfortunately not. Would you care for a turn about the gardens? If I shan’t be dancing, my slippers would at least like some fresh air.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

He escorted her through the doors and into the night air fragrant with roses.

Once they came upon the first bench on the path, Miss Stark immediately withdrew her arm and perched herself on it.

“Mr. Snow, I wondered if I may be bold for a moment.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He found himself standing before her, almost at attention.

“Are you in want of a wife, Mr. Snow?”

“Am I…? Pardon…?” he sputtered. His posture relaxed in his surprise.

“Are you attending this London season in hopes of securing a wife by the end?”

“I would love for it to end with the acceptance of a proposal, of course. But I am not on the hunt, as it were.”

“Would you mind terribly if I told you something personal?”

“Not in the least.”

“This is my third season. Each year, I am lined up alongside younger and younger girls. I would like for this to be my last season. I come from a good family, good name. My pin money is not considerable, but it is an acceptable sum. When my father passes, I shall receive an annual increase as my inheritance.”

“What exactly are you proposing, Miss Stark?”

“An agreement of sorts. An understanding, if you will.”

“An understanding?”

“If neither of us find acceptable matches by the end of the season, I would like to recommend myself. I understand if this is too forward or…or desperate, but…”

Jon felt warm, warmer than he had felt inside with all of the other people and dancing.

“Not at all. I don’t envy the pressure you and the other young ladies are under to secure a husband.”

He had meant what he said—he was not on the hunt for a wife the way many of the men with his newfound inheritance might be. Before the letter arrived from his uncle’s solicitor, Jon had thought he would marry for love. There were a few shire girls he could see himself spending his life with. The letter changed that.

Though Miss Stark had caught his eye from the beginning. She was beautiful. She had a good name.

Jon doubted he would be able to land a better match even if he had been brought up in this society.

But surely, she could make this proposal to any number of suitable men. Why him?

“Are you certain there isn’t someone else you’d rather have this understanding with? Men whom you know?”

“Have you ever fathered a bastard? Cost a woman her reputation?”

“Of course I haven’t,” he replied, indignant. _Were all society ladies this bold?_

“Are you a good man?”

“I try to be.”

“You asked me to dance, Mr. Snow,” Miss Stark said quietly, her eyes skirting away from him for the first time. “This is the first ball since my first season where I have been asked to dance by someone who was not old enough to be my father.”

Jon had seen the men who circled Miss Stark’s party. They had appeared as if they were stalking prey.

“I acknowledge what I’m asking is…unprecedented, to say the least. I apologize for putting you on the spot in this way. My family is staying at our townhouse on Winters Avenue, if you’d like to consider it further…”

Miss Stark stood abruptly.

“Wait, Miss Stark—” He caught her gloved hand. “I accept. We have an understanding.”


End file.
